by Nikki Logan
She just blinked at him as his words sank into her exhausted brain. What kind of a jerk would do this to someone so unprepared?
‘No reason? At all?’
He shrugged, but the nonchalance cost him dear. ‘I have what I came for.’
It was hard to define the expression that suffused her face then: part-confusion, part-sorrow, part-disappointment. ‘What about Wardoo?’
It was impossible not to mark the perfect segue into the revelation he wanted so badly not to make. To hurt this gentle creature in a way that was as wrong as taking a spear gun to some brightly coloured fish just going about its own business on the reef.
But he’d already missed several opportunities to be strong—to be honest—and do the right thing by Mila.
He wasn’t about to leave her thinking the best of him.
Not when it was the last thing he deserved.
* * *
‘Mila, listen—’ Rich began.
‘I wasn’t making any assumptions,’ she said in a rush. ‘I know I don’t have any claims on you. That I’m necessarily anything more than just...’
Entertainment.
Though the all too familiar and awkward taste of cola forming at the back of her throat suggested otherwise.
Mila, listen...was as classic an entrée into the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech as she’d ever heard. Except she well knew the truth behind that now.
It was always her.
Just because she’d found someone that she could be comfortable around—with—didn’t necessarily mean Rich felt the same way. Or, even if he did, that it was particularly unique for him. There were probably a lot of women back in the city that he felt comfortable around. More businesslike women with whom he could discuss current affairs. More suitable women that he could take to important functions. More cognitively conventional women that he could just be normal with.
The cola started to transition into the nose-scrunching earwax that she hated so much.
‘We’ve spent days together,’ he began. ‘We’ve eaten together and we’ve kissed a couple of times. It’s not unreasonable for you to wonder what we are to each other, Mila.’
He spoke as if he were letting an employee go. Impersonal. Functional. Controlled. It was hard not to admire the leader in him, but it was just as impossible not to resent the heck out of that. He’d clearly had time to prepare for this moment whereas she’d walked into it all sleepy-eyed and Merlot-filled.
Yet, somehow, this felt as prepared as she was ever going to get.
‘And what is that, exactly?’ she asked.
‘There’s a connection here,’ he said, leaning in. ‘I think it would be foolish to try and pretend otherwise. But good chemistry doesn’t necessarily make us a good fit.’
She blinked at him. They didn’t fit? He would fit in anywhere. He was just that kind of a man. Which meant...
‘You mean I’m not.’
‘That’s not what I was saying, but you have to admit that you would fit about as well in my world as I’ve fit in yours.’
‘You fit in mine just fine.’ Or so she’d thought.
His laugh wasn’t for her. ‘The man who can’t go in open water? That novelty wouldn’t last long.’
She refused to let him minimise this moment. ‘Do you not like it here?’
‘I didn’t say I haven’t enjoyed it. I said I don’t fit here.’
Why? Because he was new to it? ‘You haven’t really given it much of a chance.’
It was so much easier to defend the place she loved than the heart that was hurting.
Rich sighed. ‘I didn’t come here looking for anything but information, Mila...’
‘Why did you come, Rich?’ she asked. He’d avoided the question twice before but asking that bought her a few moments to get her thoughts in order. To chart some safe passage out of these choppy emotional waters.
He took a deep, slow breath and studied her, tiny forks appearing between his eyes. Then he leaned forward with the most purpose she’d seen in him and she immediately regretted asking.
‘The government is proposing a re-draft of the boundaries of the leaseholdings on the Northwest Cape,’ he began. ‘They want to remove the coastal strip from Wardoo’s lease.’
His words were so unlike the extreme gravity in his face it took her a moment to orient. That was not the terrible blow she’d steeled herself for.
‘Why?’
‘They want to see the potential of the area fulfilled and remove the impediments to tourism coming in.’
Impediments like the Dawsons protecting the region by controlling the access.
‘It’s a big deal that this is a World Heritage Marine Park,’ he went on. ‘They want the world to be able to come see it. But until now they haven’t been able to act.’
There was a point in all this corporate speak, somewhere. Mila grappled for it. ‘What’s changed now?’
‘Wardoo’s fifty-year lease is up. They’re free to renegotiate the boundaries as they wish.’
Ironic that the very listing that was supposed to recognise and protect the reef only made it more attractive for tourists. And all those people needed somewhere to stay.
‘And redrawn boundaries are bad?’
‘The new leasehold terms will make it nearly impossible to turn a reasonable profit from this land. Without the coastal strip.’
Was she still feeling the effects of her not-so-power nap? Somehow, she was failing to connect the dots that Rich was laying out. ‘What has the coastal strip got to do with Wardoo’s profitability?’
Rich’s broad shoulders lifted high and then dropped slowly as he measured his words.
‘Every business that operates in Coral Bay pays a percentage to WestCorp for the opportunity to do so. Tourism has been keeping Wardoo afloat for years.’
The stink of realisation hit her like black tar. She sagged against the sofa back. That was why the Dawsons were so staunchly against external developers in Coral Bay.
‘So...you weren’t protecting the reef,’ she whispered. ‘You were protecting your profits?’
‘WestCorp is a business, Mila. Wardoo is just one holding amongst three dozen.’
She pushed her empty dish away. ‘Is that why you were up here? To check up on your tenants?’ It hit her then. ‘Oh, God! A percentage of my rent probably goes to you too. You should have said it was a rental inspection, I would have tidied up—’
‘Mila—’
She pushed to her feet as her stomach protested the mix of yeast and cherry that came with all the anger and confusion—on top of the clam chowder, red wine and utter stupidity, it threatened a really humiliating resurgence.
‘Excuse me, I need a moment.’
She didn’t wait for permission. Before Rich could even rise to his own feet, she’d crossed the room and started negotiating the steps down to his bedroom. Once in the spacious en suite bathroom, she braced her hands either side of the sink until she was sure that her churning stomach was not going to actually broil over. Then she pressed a damp cloth to her face and neck until the queasiness eased off.
This was not the first time she’d had synaesthesia-prompted nausea. Her body really couldn’t discriminate between actual tastes and imagined, so some combinations, usually reserved for really complicated moments, ended up in long sojourns to a quiet, cool place.
She sagged down onto her elbows on the marble vanity and pressed the cloth to her closed eyes.
If she’d given it any real thought she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover Wardoo was getting kickbacks from the local businesses. If they were in the city they’d definitely have been paying rent to someone.
No, the churning cherry was all about how stupid she had been to just assume that Rich would find the reef the mo
st valuable part of the Bay. If he liked the reef at all, it was secondary to the income that the tenants could bring him. He was still here for the money.
He was all about the money.
WestCorp is a business, Mila...
He’d even hinted at as much, several times. But she hadn’t listened. She and Rich saw the world completely differently. She had no more right to judge him for the way he perceived the world than he had to judge her synaesthesia.
They just came at life from very different places.
Too different.
Leveraging a bunch of cafés and caravan parks and glass-bottom boat operators for a percentage did not make him a bad person.
It just meant he was no white knight to her reef after all.
She’d have to carry on doing her own white knighting.
She patted her face dry, pinched her cheeks to encourage a little colour into them and switched off the fancy lights as she stepped back into the bedroom. Such a short time ago she’d curled up in that bed—in amongst Rich’s lingering scent—and thought drowsily how nice it would be to stay there for ever. Now, that moment felt as dreamlike as the past few days.
When viewed with the cold, hard light of reality.
She’d stumbled against Rich’s office chair as she’d staggered into the bedroom a few minutes earlier and she took a moment now to right it, sliding it back into the cavity under the workstation and setting to rights the documents she’d splayed across the desktop with her falter. As she did, her eyes slashed across a bound wad of pages that had slipped out from under a plain file.
The word ‘Coral Bay’ immediately leapt out at her.
She glanced at the empty doorway and then lifted the corner on the cover page like a criminal.
Words. Lots and lots of words. Some kind of summary introduction. She flipped to the next page and saw a map of the coast—as familiar to her as the shape of her own hand. A large area was shaded virtually across the coast road from Nancy’s Point.
That was where she stopped being covert.
Mila pulled out the chair, let her wobbly legs sink her into it and unclipped the binder so she could turn the pages more fully. Another plan showing massive trenching down from Coral Bay township—water, power, sewer. Over the page another, showing side elevations of a mass-scale construction—single, two and three storeys high in different places. Swathes of parking. Irrigation. Gardens.
A helipad, for crying out loud.
Her fingers trembled more with every page she turned. Urgent eyes scanned the top of every plan and found the WestCorp logo. Waves of nausea rolled in again and Mila concentrated on slowing her patchy breathing. She bought herself more time by tidying the pages and fixing the binding. Just before she stood, she glanced again at the summary introduction and her eyes fell to the page bottom. An elaborate signature in ink. Rich’s signature.
And that was yesterday’s date beside it.
The Portus seemed to lurch beneath her as if it had been hit by some undersea quake.
Rich was developing the reef—a luxury resort on the coast of Wardoo’s land. No wonder he protested the government’s plans to excise the coastal strip.
He had this under development.
And he’d signed off on it after he’d seen the coral spawn. After he’d first kissed her.
She wobbled to her feet and pressed the incriminating evidence to her chest as she returned to the aft deck. Rich rose politely as she came back out but if he noticed what she was clinging to he showed no sign.
Mila dropped the report on the table between them and let it lie there like some dead thing.
Rich’s eyes fell shut briefly, but then found hers again—one hundred per cent CEO. ‘WestCorp isn’t a charity, Mila. I have shareholders and other ventures to protect.’
No. That wasn’t what he was supposed to protect.
‘You’re forsaking the reef?’ she cut in. ‘And the Bay.’
And me, a tiny, hurt voice whimpered.
‘I admit it is beautiful, Mila. And diverse. UNESCO obviously agreed to give it World Heritage status. But without the revenue from tourism activity, without the coastal strip, I can’t see how I can justify maintaining Wardoo.’ His chest rose high and then fell.
Couldn’t justify it? Did every part of his world have to pay for itself? Did life itself come with a profit margin?
Her voice fell to a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s your heritage, Rich. Your roots are here. You’re a Dawson. Does that not matter?’
‘That’s like me saying that your roots are in Tokyo because your surname is Nakano. Do you feel Japanese, Mila?’
She’d never fully identified with any one culture in her crazy patchwork quilt family. That had always been part of her general disconnection with the world until the day she’d woken up and realised that where she belonged was here. The reef was her roots. Regardless of the many where-elses she had come from.
She identified as Mila. Wildlife was her people.
And she would defend them against whoever came.
‘You’re Saltwater People too, Rich. You just don’t know it. Look at who you become on the Portus. Look at where you go to find peace.’
‘Peace doesn’t put food on the table.’
‘Does everything have to revolve around the almighty dollar?’
‘We can’t all live in shipping containers and spend our days frolicking with sea life, Mila. Money matters. Choosing it isn’t a bad choice; it’s just not your choice.’
Her beautiful little home had never sounded so tawdry—nor her job so unimportant—and when those two things formed at least half of your world believing in them mattered.
A lot.
She pushed to her feet. Words tumbled up past the earwax taste of heartbreak and she had to force them over her tight lips so they could be heard up on the fly bridge. Though there was no chance on earth that the crew hadn’t heard their most recent discussion.
‘Damo? I would like to go to shore, please.’
Rich rose too. ‘Mila, we’re not done...’
‘Oh, yes. We are.’ Completely. ‘As soon as you’re free, Damo.’
There was enough anxiety in her voice to get anyone’s attention.
‘Mila,’ Rich urged, ‘you don’t understand. If it’s not me, it will be someone else...’
‘I understand better than you think,’ she hissed. ‘You used me and you lied to me. About why you were here. About who you are. I squired you around the district like some royal bloody tour and showed you all its secrets, and I thought I was making a difference. I thought you saw the Bay the way I do. And maybe you actually did, yet you’re still happy to toss it all away with your trenches and your pipes and your helipads.’
Her arms crept around her middle. ‘That was my mistake for letting my guard down for you; I won’t be so foolish again.’
She stepped up to him as he also rose to his feet.
‘But if you think for one minute that I am going to let anyone hurt the place and people that I love, then you—’ she pushed a finger into his chest ‘—don’t understand me. I will whip up a PR nightmare for WestCorp. I’ll get every single tourist who visits this place to sign my petition and every scientist I know to go on record with the damage that commercialisation does to reefs. You go ahead and throw the Bay to the wolves. You go make your money and spend it on making more money and don’t worry about any of us. But I want you to think on something as you sit on your big stockpile of cash, tossing it over your head and letting it rain down on you...’
She flicked her chin up.
‘What are you keeping the money for, exactly, if not to allow you to have ten thousand square kilometres of gorgeous, red, barely productive land in your life? Or an ocean. Or a reef. Or a luxury catamaran. Things that might not make any money but
are completely priceless because of what they bring you. Money is a means to an end; it’s not the end itself. Surely wealth is meaningless unless it buys you freedom or love or—’
She stumbled on the word as soon as it fell across her lips because she hadn’t meant to say it. And she hadn’t meant to feel it. But the subtlest undertones of pineapple told her that she did.
Richard Grundy, of all people...
She took a steadying breath.
‘Or sanctuary! It won’t keep you warm at night and it won’t fill the great void inside you that you try so hard to disguise.’
‘I don’t have a void—’
‘Of course you do. You pack your money down into it like a tooth cavity.’ She frowned and stepped closer. ‘What if wealth is the thing that people like you are raised to believe matters in lieu of the things that actually matter?’
‘People like me?’ he gritted.
‘Disconnected people. Empty people. Lonely people.’
Rich’s strong jaw twitched and he paled a little. ‘Really, Mila? The poster-child for dysfunction wants to counsel me on being disconnected?’
His hard words hit home, but she could not deny the essential truth in them.
‘Has it not occurred to you yet that I am far richer than you could ever be? Will ever be? Because I have all of this.’ She held her hands out to the moonlight and the ocean and the reef they couldn’t see and the wonders they both knew to be on it. ‘And I have my place within it. The certainty and fulfilment of that. All of this is more wealth than anyone could ever need in a dozen lifetimes.’
Damo appeared at the bottom of the steps down from the bridge, looking about as uncomfortable as she suddenly felt. Here, in this place that she’d already started to think of as a second home.
Mila turned immediately to follow him down to the tender.
‘If WestCorp opts not to renew the lease then who knows who would come in or what they might do with it? The only thing that will keep the government from excising the coastal strip is significant capital investment in the area,’ he called after her. ‘I need to build something.’